An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

The soft mellow sound of the horn accompanied by the gentle tinkling of the keys the singer's bold contralto  is smoky like the cigar smoke of a long forgotten age of backroom agreements the murmur of patrons who barely even notice the musical notes held frozen in place A bygone age of leading men and sultry sirens as I sit at the bar and offer a toast to days gone by.

Fluffy wisps  you can  get lost  within  the mass of  cotton tendrils wrapped within  ice crystals  and they carry  the weight  of life giving water until the burden becomes too great and they shower the land with cool storms

That first impression  that meeting of eyes  has more of an effect  than you realize  A quick appraisal  a judge of your soul  can change your path  and derail your goal.  Is this a threat or is this already written? Is this just your fate or are you just smitten? An instinct right here  to reach for his hand  and follow his footsteps  across a barren sand

Mother hates tattoos she thinks they are tacky  unattractive  a sign of a criminal  She talked about them behind their back but never directly to their faces Husband thinks  those who have them  are rebels against  polite society  He says he believes in live and let live but he always has a definite opinion I believe that  they are beautiful art  an expression of  individuality The colors and patterns fascinate my creative eye perhaps one day I get pictures of my own

Face florid with wine  unfocused gaze  the men's smiles do not reach their eyes the women titter behind their fans the servants go about with averted faces and the duchess  once again  goes to bed  alone.

It is spring  the seedling  pokes its leaves  out of the soil  It is summer  it flourishes  in the bright sun  the flowers bright  It is autumn  it shivers in the cold  it knows its time  fast approaches  It is winter  its roots shrivel  the cold freezes  it no longer breathes A new seed  slumbers deep  underground the cycle continues.